PRIDE OF AUTHORSHIP

PRIDE OF AUTHORSHIP
Now we have two conservatives in America, namely Citizens William F.
Buckley and Stephen Forbes, espousing views first articulated by the left.
Buckley has devoted an entire issue of his National Review to the
proclaimation that the 'drug war is lost' and 'legalization' is now
our only hope for a sane nation.
Forbes has claimed an edge over Dole in the current Repubican
New Hampshire Primary Polls, largely extolling the virtues a the flat tax.
Time magazine devotes its entire issue this week to a lengthly exploration
of the flat tax concept, originally proposed by none other than
the California 'flake' Jerry Brown.
What have we now in American Politics? Conservatives gone fanciful?
Attempting to reach conciliation with the left? Or simply drunk with Power?
Analysis of the narcissism of the 90s leaves us with no more startling
conclusion than it would in the ancient Greek Myths: viz. That they
will wither away in their own image: But not before killing that
which made them.
For me, as a jew, it feels odd to be considering pride as a sin.
Because my understanding, though feeble, is that that is what Jesus
preached.
What is clear for me is that neither Buckley nor Forbes, oddly both
magazine magnates, are being honest in attributing credit for their
ideas. Each appears to be appropriating the ideas of another without
respecting their originator. And, as it happens, in the case of both
of these ideas, the originators are on the left.
In an era where form is more important than substance, why should
we expect correct attribution from our leaders? Perhaps because it
is only by following their example that we shall set our own. And
if the examples of our current leadership are to be followed,
future moral poverty will be widespread indeed.
It worries me that such obvious plagiarism can be so easily rationalized,
that our leaders will engage any policy which permits their aggrandizement,
and that our people will believe any communication from a charmed
class of messengers, no matter how hollow.
Bert Gold
San Francisco